


The Ebb Tide

by embalmer56



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dark John, Discipline, Dubious Consent, M/M, More tags to be added, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Punishment, Safeword Fail, Subdrop, Whipping, apparently i'm not a very nice person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t how Sherlock wanted their first time back together to be, but if this is how John wants him, then this is how John will have him.</p><p>-Please heed the tags, very dubious consent, failure to safeword</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ebb Tide

**Author's Note:**

> -dubiously edited
> 
> -this is a dark little plot bunny that has been stuck in my head for a month. it probably should have stayed locked away.

The first time it happens, Sherlock doesn’t even think to safe word.

John drags him out of the half-finished tube station, past the inquisitive eyes of half of Scotland Yard with an iron grip on his bicep. Sherlock knows without looking, that even through the layers of his coat and suit, that he’ll wear a perfect impression of John’s fingertips on his arm by morning. He’s grimacing but is secretly pleased.

In the cab, John let’s go of his arm and sits as far away from him as possible, his small frame pressed firmly against the door. Sherlock aches to put his head in John’s lap and be stroked, he’s dreamt of it many times during the last two years, but he knows he wouldn’t be welcomed now. Instead he twists his hands in his lap until his knuckles pop in protest. A glare across the chasm of vacant cab seat leaves him cold and he settles for clutching them instead.

The ride is mercifully short. John is out of the cab and in the door before Sherlock even has time to pay. He shoves all the money he has in his billfold at the driver, murmuring a rough voiced thank you as he bounds after John out of the cab and up to the flat.

By the time Sherlock reaches the landing John has stripped his coat and his cardigan and is rolling up the sleeves on his button up. “Trousers and pants off; kneel on the sofa.” It’s the first time John has spoken to him since the tube station. Sherlock notes something odd about his voice, but is too busy staring at the golden skin being bared inch by inch to pay it heed.

He licks his lips and closes his eyes, leaning in when John moves closer to him, so he’s unprepared for the sharp slap to his thinly trousered thigh. “I said; trousers and pants off; kneel on the sofa.” That tone of voice again. But he’s too stunned by the fact that he’s accidentally disobeyed John to be able to process. He strips his bottoms in record time and is kneeling on the edge of the sofa with his back to John.

A firm hand between his shoulder blades pushes him forward until his face is level with the back of the sofa. “Stay.” Sherlock shivers when he hears the gentle swish of John taking off his belt.

The first stroke hurts more than he remembers it could, the breath forced from his lungs as he tries to lean up.

“Settle.”

Then there is the steadying weight of a forearm across his lower back, a strong hand clutching his hip through his suit coat and he relaxes back into position. The whipping continues long past the point of pleasure. His cock, which had been hard since John gripped his arm in the tube station, flags in disinterest. He’s lost count by the time John tells him to be quiet. He’s no longer able to keep from making noise; so he fills his mouth with the leather of the back of the sofa. It tastes of dust, but it allows him to obey.

The only way that he knows that the whipping is over is because he hears the buckle of the belt clatter against the floor. He can hear the click of the lube cap over his own harsh breathing, but is still surprised when a slick digit presses at his entrance. He moans into the sofa leather as he is breached. His cock jerks in interest as John pushes in fully. John doesn’t give him time to adjust, moving his hand in steady strokes before Sherlock is ready. He hasn’t been touched like this since three nights before he jumped. He’s tight, and it burns.

He winces as a second finger joins the first. John opens him up in a perfunctory fashion, there is no caress, no prodding for his prostate. Sherlock tries to settle into the rhythm. Once they’re joined it’ll be different, feel different. He bites his lip as fingers are replaced with John’s cock. He’s not open enough but he forces himself to relax, John won’t hurt him.

John grips his hips through his clothing and seats himself inside fully, hips pressed against Sherlock’s ass. He wonders vaguely if John wiped his hand off before touching his coat. Then he scolds himself for worrying about such a thing with his lover planted firmly inside of him.

The first few thrusts are tentative, and Sherlock relaxes just a fraction before John sets up a punishing pace, slamming his hips into Sherlock’s rapidly bruising flesh. John has never taken him like this before and it takes Sherlock several minutes to realize that this must be part of his punishment too. His cock, which had shown renewed interest when John was fingering him, tries to bury itself inside his body.

John slides a hand up his back and fists the collar of his jacket and shirt, tugging firmly, lightly choking. His grip presses the tops of his fingers into the base of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock tries to concentrate on the touch of John’s skin. Despite being fingered open, this is the most intimate touch they’ve shared since Sherlock’s been back. This isn’t how he wanted their first time back together to be, but if this is how John wants him, then this is how John will have him.

A particularly brutal thrust pulls at the stitches that run in a crescent over his left shoulder blade and he can’t stop from moaning in pain.

“Shut up.” John huffs out between thrusts. Sherlock can hear from his voice that he’s close.

Sherlock’s not certain, but he’s fairly sure he’s bleeding. Sherlock forcefully reminds himself that John is a doctor, and knows what he’s doing. He digs through his mind palace for memories of other times John has touched him with the back of his hand to distract himself.

If he can just get through this punishment, then John will stroke him. It never happens when John is cross with him, but once Sherlock has allowed John to burn his anger out on Sherlock’s flesh, he becomes free with his affection.

John pulls the collar of his shirt and jacket even tighter as he comes, leaving Sherlock stuttering for air. The seconds tick by like hours before John releases him. He gasps as he leans his head heavily against the back of the sofa. Now. Now there would be affection.

John pulls away with a disenchanting squelch, tucking himself away. He’s moving around the room with purpose, putting his clothes to right. It doesn’t make sense to Sherlock, but he hasn’t been given permission to speak so he keeps his head down and waits.

“Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.” John says, already heading down the stairs. The front door slams before Sherlock rights himself, his knees protesting. The evidence of John’s presence is all over his body, but John himself is gone. He blinks owlishly at the wallpaper for a few moments before moving stiffly off the sofa and down the hallway to his room.

He doesn’t understand why he feels more alone now, than when he did while he was abroad. It’s too big a concept to deal with; his mind, usually blissfully quiet after a session, feels crowded in on all sides instead. So he crawls under the covers, still only half clothed.

John said to rest, so he does.


End file.
